User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 7
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Seven 10 May 1945 “Now let your mind go blank; concentrate only on your senses,” Griselda said. Minerva dutifully tried to empty her mind of conscious thought. After a few moments, she found herself drifting along on a sea of sensation: smells she resisted putting a name to, sounds she refused to identify … They had been practising this exercise in preparation for her Animagus work on a daily basis since Minerva had returned to her apprenticeship. After a few minutes, Griselda’s voice cut through Minerva’s reverie. “So? How was it this time?” “Good, I think. I was able to maintain it fairly easily,” answered Minerva. “Good. Once you can do it for five minutes straight, we’ll move on to the next set of exercises.” There was a sudden noise from the stairwell, and a moment later, a very excited and out-of-breath Bathilda appeared, hurrying down the steps. “Bathilda! What the hell—?” “Hush, Zel,” said Bathilda, bending over to catch her breath. Minerva was concerned about the old witch for a few moments, but Bathilda straightened up, an emotional flush staining the skin of her face. “I’ve just heard over the Wizarding Wireless … he’s done it, Zel!” exclaimed Bathilda, throwing her arms around a confused and astonished Griselda. “Slow down, old girl … who’s done what?” asked Griselda. “Dumbledore! He’s gone and captured Gellert!” It was the first time Minerva had ever seen Griselda at a loss for words; her mouth just opened and closed a few times, no sound escaping it. “It’s true, Zel. I checked it with the Minister the minute I heard,” said Bathilda softly, taking her by the upper arms and giving her a slight shake. “He’s sitting in a cell in Nurmengard, locked up in his own bloody tower even as we speak.” It took Minerva a second to work out that Bathilda was talking about Gellert Grindelwald, and that the Minister of Magic was not, in fact, sitting in a prison cell in the Bothnian Sea. And what had she said about “Dumbledore”? Did she mean Albus? Bathilda was looking intently into Griselda’s eyes, and it appeared to Minerva that Bathilda was trying to persuade her beloved of the truth of her words through force of will. “It’s over?” whispered Griselda, and the fear in her voice made Minerva tremble inwardly. She would never have imagined her strong, stalwart teacher to be afraid of anything. “Well, Gellert’s still got supporters to be dealt with, but with their Volkssklavenmeister out of the picture, they’ll go to ground like as not.” To Minerva’s utter astonishment, Griselda threw her arms around Bathilda and began to sob into her shoulder. Bathilda rubbed soothing circles on Griselda’s back and stroked her hair, murmuring, “There now … there now … let it out …” Minerva automatically backed away a few paces, suddenly feeling as if she were intruding on something incredibly intimate. She caught Bathilda’s eye and cocked her head toward the stairway to indicate that she would be in the main house, and Bathilda give a slight nod. Disappearing up the staircase and out the door that led to the tiny garden, Minerva then used the password to let herself into the main house. She wondered if she should begin to prepare the tea—that had always been Bathilda’s province—but decided to wait. Minerva had no idea where the tea things were, and she had an inkling that Griselda would not appreciate her apprentice poking about in her kitchen; it would have felt like an intrusion into the intimate territory Griselda and Bathilda shared. She contented herself with taking a look around the parlour. It had become a tradition—well, habit; tradition was too grand a word for it—for Minerva to take tea with Griselda and Bathilda of a Friday evening before returning home. She had come to look forward to these occasions as a parched man looks forward to a sip of water. The two older women were the only people with whom Minerva had been able to hold a real conversation about anything she was interested in since leaving Hogwarts. Conversations with Gerald were … well, not conversations. Their interactions generally consisted of her nodding at appropriate intervals and interjecting a bored, “Oh?” into his nattering discourses on this or that horse’s chances in the next race, or some bit of lurid gossip about one or another of Scotland’s small, pure-blood wizarding community. And of course, there were the endearments he slobbered into her ear several nights a week as he took his pleasure, always on top of her, and lately, always in the dark. And there was certainly no conversation to be had with any other member of the Macnair household. Her mother-in-law only spoke to her when necessary, and then only of household matters. In truth, Minerva thought that Heloise was not all there—or perhaps she pretended to be so, for which Minerva would hardly blame her. As for Kenneth Macnair, Minerva steered well clear of the man as much as possible. She heard quite enough from him over the dinner table, in any event, and most of what she heard put her off her food. She longed to argue with him about some of his more outrageous statements—in fact, she often suspected he was trying to goad her into an argument, but she was wise enough not to take the bait set out by a man she considered very dangerous. Minerva tried hard to be invisible whenever Kenneth Macnair was afoot, with limited success. She often had the sense that he was watching her, and it made her blood run cold. Walden, Gerald’s younger brother, was far too young to be much of a conversationalist, and Minerva didn’t hold out high hopes that the four-year-old would turn out to be an engaging playmate for Malcolm. Malcolm. Aside from her apprenticeship, the baby was the one bright spot in Minerva’s life. At three months old, he was a happy, active child, fascinated by the world around him. To Minerva’s relief—a relief tinged with regret—his reddish fuzz had fallen out a few weeks after his birth to grow in as dark-brown ringlets over the ensuing weeks. On occasion, as she had watched him grow from an newborn into something resembling a little boy, she felt a pang that she would never again hold a baby of her own, nor be able to give Malcolm a brother or sister to be his playmate and later, his ally in this difficult family. Minerva sometimes found herself talking to her baby son as she would to another adult, telling him about something she had read, or answering questions about a point of Transfiguration theory as if he were asking the questions, while he gurgled happily and wetly up at her. If Malcolm was her greatest joy, he was also her biggest worry. Minerva knew she would not always be able to protect him. Fortunately, for the moment, Gerald seemed indifferent to the child and left his rearing largely to Minerva, stopping in only to kiss the boy absently on the head after his bath before the adults sat down to sup. And the two senior Macnairs seemed to subscribe to the belief that children were best neither seen nor heard, for which Minerva was profoundly thankful. Still, she didn’t harbour any hopes that Malcolm would escape their notice forever. Minerva hoped that the Macnairs’ indifference to her son would last long enough for her to finish her apprenticeship. Once she held her mastery, she would have options. She could not divorce Gerald, thanks to the binding marriage contract, but they could separate, or perhaps he would come with her when she purchased a small home in which she could offer lessons and, she hoped, do a bit of research. She probably could not prevent him from coming if he wanted to, and she recognised it as the price she might have to pay to secure his agreement to allow her to make the purchase. She was certain she could persuade him, though. The prospect of an income would be enticing. Despite the sum settled on him by his father at their marriage, Minerva knew Gerald was always looking for a source of extra cash. Abraxans were an expensive hobby, as was losing wagers. And Minerva suspected Gerald had other expensive hobbies—ones he didn’t chatter to her about. Yes, when she thought about it, she thought she might be able to goad Gerald into agreeing to a separation, leaving him free to pursue his interests much as she pursued her own. The apprenticeship was her lifeline, of that she was certain. As she stood in her teacher’s house, she silently thanked the gods and Albus Dumbledore for her prowess at Transfiguration. During their teas, Minerva had never had much opportunity to look around Griselda’s parlour. As she paced about the room now, she was drawn to the mantel, which held several photographs in silver and ceramic frames. There was a still daguerreotype of much younger Griselda with an even younger girl who bore a certain resemblance to her—Griselda’s sister, Minerva guessed—and another in which the two girls were flanked by two boys. Brothers? Another photo, this one an animated wizarding image, showed Griselda, her hand being forcefully shaken by an elderly wizard as he hung a medallion around her neck, Griselda grinning wider than Minerva had ever seen her do in life. But the majority of photos were of Griselda and Bathilda in various locations—in Muggle clothes with ridiculously large hats beneath the Eiffel Tower, in heavy fur robes on a snow-covered slope, and a surprising snapshot of the two in long woollen bathing costumes on a beach—but the thing that struck Minerva was that the two women were always touching in the photos: a hand on a shoulder, an arm around a waist, and in one, a quick peck on the lips followed by a furtive darting of the eyes as if to ensure they hadn’t been caught out. For the second time that afternoon, Minerva almost staggered backward, so profound was the emotion that washed over her. In a moment, she recognised it as envy, deep and painful as the pangs that had accompanied the destruction of her ova after she had taken that terrible potion. No one in her adult life had ever touched her in love, or even affection. Correction: one person had. But he was out of her reach, and it was quite possible she would never see him again, or at least, not alone. And even if by some miracle they were to be thrown together again, there was now a barrier between them, even if he was unaware of it. But Minerva would always know it and feel it, and the weight of the secret would eventually crush anything else that might grow between them. Albus. Bathilda had said that he had captured Grindelwald. How? Was he all right? And why had Griselda reacted so strongly to the news? Her questions were only partially answered when the two elder witches appeared in the parlour, a red-eyed Griselda excusing herself upstairs to “freshen up,” and Bathilda to make the tea. When Bathilda had deposited the tea tray on the table and settled herself into the chair opposite Minerva’s, she said, “I expect you’re wondering what all that was about.” “It isn’t my place, but I will admit to being curious,” answered Minerva. “I’ll tell you part of it, but not the details. We’ll save those for a more settled time, if you’re still interested. It’s history, and I’ll tell it eventually, but Gellert’s supporters are still lurking about, and it isn’t wise to have too much information you don’t need about the thing.” Well, that certainly piqued Minerva’s curiosity. “In a nutshell, Zel is relieved that Gellert’s locked up because he threatened me.” Minerva’s astonishment must have been evident, because Bathilda gave a rough laugh, saying, “Oh, yes. I can see you’re thinking: ‘Why would the world’s most powerful Dark wizard have it in for an old lady who mucks about in dusty libraries for a living?’” “No … well, yes, but I wouldn’t have put it quite that way,” said Minerva. “No, I know you wouldn’t,” said Bathilda with a smile. “Anyway, Gellert Grindelwald is my nephew. Well … great-nephew.” Minerva’s mouth fell open. “Even lunatics have family,” said Bathilda, which effectively reminded Minerva to shut her mouth. “He came to stay with me after he got himself tossed out of school. His mother begged me to take him in because it turned out that he was in more than a little trouble with the authorities once the school copped to the full extent of what he had been doing there. “The short version is that while he stayed with me, something else happened that made it necessary for him to leave the country in a hurry. When he did, he ended up in the hands of the Swiss authorities and spent five years in the wizarding prison outside Regensdorf. He blames me for that.” “But why?” “That’s part of the detail I won’t go into. But the outcome was that Gellert has a grudge against me, and he tried several times to exercise it. I’m minus one spleen thanks to a couple of his British supporters, and they nearly killed me another time.” “That’s why Griselda is so …” Minerva searched for the right word. “Emotional?” finished Bathilda. “Yes. She doesn’t talk about it—hell, she rarely talks about her feelings—but she’s developed kind of a phobia about it … about something happening to me. That’s why I moved out of Godric’s Hollow. Frankly, I don’t think I’m any safer here in London, but it keeps Zel calmer. She likes to think she can protect me. Has a point, I suppose: I was never much at defensive spells, and Zel … well, you’ve seen her wand-work.” “Yes. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of any hex she might throw,” agreed Minerva. “Bathilda, thank you for telling me.” Bathilda just nodded. Minerva added anxiously, “Do you think you’re safe now?” “Safe enough. Gellert’s supporters weren’t especially active here—my little contretemps with them notwithstanding—and they’ll probably scurry back into their holes to avoid any repercussions. They’re not going to risk being noticed by the Ministry just to exercise one of Gellert’s old grudges.” “No, I imagine not,” agreed Minerva. Just then, they heard Griselda coming down the stairs. The three were unusually quiet as they had their tea. Finally, Minerva could not help asking, “Bathilda, you said Dumbledore captured Grindelwald?” “Mmm. Went looking for him last month, so I heard from the Minister. It was all very hush-hush, but I’m guessing the International Confederation put pressure on the Minister to send him. He’s the only one I know of whose power would be a match for Gellert’s. And, of course … ah, never mind.” “Is Albus all right?” Griselda quickly asked, posing the question that had been on the tip of Minerva’s tongue. “Yes, more or less. Apparently, he’s in hospital in Vienna. The Minister said his leg’s pretty badly mangled, and there’s a chance he could lose it, but he’s going to be all right.” Both older witches turned at Minerva’s exclaimed, “Oh!” “Don’t worry, Minerva,” said Griselda. “I’m sure his leg will mend. Albus wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said with a sly smile at Bathilda. “Albus was Minerva’s mentor at school,” she added. “He was the one told me I’d be a fool to pass her up as an apprentice, marriage or not.” “You owe him, then, I’d say,” said Bathilda. “I certainly do,” said Minerva. “Looks like we all owe him now,” remarked Griselda. The other two nodded in agreement. ← Back to Chapter 6 On to Chapter 8→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A